Page 20 of Silas

As I devour the food and sip the water, I feel something burning in my chest, a non-physical sensation. Something hot and hard, thick and acidic, a burning, cancerous knot.

The feeling grows and intensifies as the hot days and cold nights stretch onward.

I examine the feeling. What is it?

Anger.

It’s anger.

I can’t take any more. I can’t look at Jerry’s sweaty, jowly face one more moment—I can’t stomach the feeling of his fleshy bulk grinding me into the mattress. I can’t withstand another punch, another kick.

I can’t make myself say “yes sir” or “no sir” one more time. I can’t obey. I can’t disappear. I can’t serve and perform and acquiesce.

I can’t take it. I’d rather die than live this way one more day.

I have to leave.

The thought blazes through me like a rocket, detonating inside me like an atomic bomb.

I may not make it far, but I have to try. They’ll likely kill me when they catch me, but that’s better than this.

There’s a world out there. I’ve seen it. Either Papa or Jerry takes me to the supermarket once a month, and I see the world through the window of the truck. There are stores and gas stations, breweries and restaurants and clothing stores. There are people.

Maybe there’s someone out there who would let me work for them.

I let sleep wash over me, and dream of escaping the walls of this compound that is the only world I’ve ever known.

* * *

The scraping squealof the bolt jolts me awake. I struggle to my feet—my injured ribs send knives of agony searing through me with every movement.

Papa stands on the other side of the threshold, anger limning his features. “Let’s go.”

I shuffle out of the lockup, cringing away from him and holding my breath as I squeeze past his lean hard frame.

I clench my jaw and suck in a breath, expecting a blow—

It still takes me by surprise, a fist to my kidney sending me to my hands and knees, pain whitening my vision and stealing my breath.

“You told Jerry no.” His voice is low and vicious, vibrating with rage.

I don’t respond, because there’s nothing I can say.

He hauls me to my feet and grips my arms so hard I’ll have bruises. “Answerme, girl.”

“Y-y-yes. I did. I told him no.” I swallow hard, struggling for breath.

“You know better than that, Naomi.” Now, he sounds disappointed. “A few days in lockup ain’t anything like punishment enough for disrespecting your husband’s authority that way.”

My cracked ribs aren’t? The hunger and thirst aren’t? I say none of this.

Papa’s truck is waiting, engine idling with a rattle and a cloud of diesel exhaust. The lights shine bright white, illuminating a wide swath of the night.

“What time is it?” I ask.

He stabs a finger at me across the hood. “You shut up. It doesn’t matter what fuckin’ time it is.” The fury in his voice promises a nightmare of hurt.

I climb gingerly and with intense pain up into the cab of his truck, waiting with my hands folded on my lap. He hops in, jerking the shifter into gear before he’s even closed his door. We bolt forward with a spray of gravel, bouncing onto the two-track running from the main house through the woods and between the training fields, to the lockup and equipment shed and terminating at the barracks on the far north of the property.